


Little Randall Brown Stories

by Samstown4077



Series: Randall Brown - Head of News [6]
Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, Ficlets, Fluff, Little Randall Stories, life between you and Randall Brown, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-14 00:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 6,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4542969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Samstown4077
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of little ficlets I write for Randall Brown Monday on Tumblr, which I add to post of Misswinterseat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> All of those are little episodes out of your life with Randall Brown, the character from "The Hour".

You two date for a while, since a very long while. He has a key to your apartment and you to his, and sometimes when you know he works late again, you drive over to his place, make yourself comfortable, make some pasta for him and you, read one of his books and sometimes simply take a bath. Randall told you, you could do anything you liked, he got used to the little chaos you leave in his rooms - aside you try to avoid it.

Then one evening after you took a long shower, you hear the door, so you quickly grab one of his white shirts and throw it over, plus your panties and greet him with half dry hair by the living room.

“Hey,” you whisper, leaning casually against the door frame and Randall looks up, slightly leaning back, and a smile appears on his face. A smile you would die for.  

His eyes travel over your body, and then he steps up to you, gently brushing some hair out of your face, tugging at his shirt on you. “I like that; they suit you even better as myself.”

“I know,” you smirk and go onto tiptoes, kissing him, and he kisses you back, his hands exploring your skin under the shirt. Affectionate kisses and caring touches, “I could get used to that. Being greeted like this every night.”

He smiles against your ear, “Move in then. It’s big enough for you and me.”

Surprised you lean back, “Really? I mean… are you sure?” You’re still afraid he would have trouble with your habits, leaving socks here and there, bringing chaos to his order, all kind of stuff like that.

Randall gives you one of his long looks, a mix of sternness and love - something only Randall can produce, “Never been surer.”

Your answer is a long passionate kiss, and two weeks later you have moved in.

 


	2. 2

Randall was no one for technology. Grown up in a world without computers, mobile phones and without the internet, he appreciated the new inventions but found them rather arduous.

So one day you find him sitting on the couch shaking his mobile phone with an angry glare. Randall was no one who gave a thing a shout; it was all communication with his eyebrows and a twitch of certain muscles in his face that showed how angry he was. Also, the thing almost makes him forget his manners.

“Everything alright?” you ask with a smirk on your lips, you try desperately to hide.

“Yes,… no,… I don’t know, it wants me to make an update,” he places the phone on the table as if it would help to solve his misery. It probably does for a second.

“And?” you know he doesn’t like to waste time with the technology, he wants it to use it, but dislikes to take care of it. ‘If this technology is so clever, it should take care of itself!’ He doesn't want to be bothered with updates and stuff.

It wouldn’t be the first time you would give him a lecture about this, ‘If you don’t do it, it will stop working in the end. If you don’t take care of your suits, it will fall apart - it’s the same thing.’ You both knew your argument was a bit lame, but he seemed to understand. It doesn’t mean, he would accept it. Stubborn Caledonian.  

This time you take pity on him, and lean against the backrest, holding out your hand, “May I?”

He huffs and gives the phone one last glare before he hands it over, watching you, how you try to update the device. You can’t see him observe you, can’t see him smile, while you have trouble. The software seems to have a bug and he is secretly pleased, that you have the same problems as he has - at least sometimes.

Suddenly he takes his phone out of your hand, “Hey! I am not finished yet!”. He places the phone on the table and makes you fall over the rest, into his arms.

“It can wait,” he gives you a kiss. Slow, sensual, his hands holding you close. His thumb trailing over the skin by your hip and the he shifts and you both lay on the couch, side by side. Instinctively you curl up. Randall Brown forgetting for a moment that everything is so busy and everybody demands his time, is your favourite Randall and so you will not object.

“This couldn’t?” you grin against his lips.

“It never can.”

 


	3. 3

Is there a man, that could bewitch you more? While you bury half your face into the pillow, you watch Randall Brown getting ready for work. In slow, deliberate moves he takes a shirt and a suit out of the wardrobe, spends at least a minute on the decision which tie he should wear today, and when he turns around, you smile at him.

He is still wearing his pyjama pants with a black shirt, his hair ruffled, a few curls covering his forehead and a scruff on his cheek. It had been a long weekend, and since he is with you, he always stops shaving at the weekends, as you once expressed you liked his casual look.

Smirking down at you, he leans down to tickle your feet, and you squeal a bit and move your feet quickly away, “No!”

He chuckles and tugs at the blanket till it slips off your body, as an answer you take his pillow and throw it at him, but miss him by at least one meter. You don’t like Mondays, and you always wondered how he could switch so quickly from weekend mood to work.

Randall lets go of you for the moment and watches himself in the mirror, his hands gliding over his chin and you can’t see him look at you in the reflection with a mischievous smirk, “Maybe I should keep it. Getting a full grown beard?”

That makes you come up, and stare at him with wide eyes. Randall Brown going casually to work? That would be a red marking in the calendar.

“Seriously?” your feet now stand on the ground, you are almost up now.

He takes your hand and pulls you up and in, into a soft kiss, “No. Just wanted to make you stand up.”

“Oh, you,” you slap him softly onto his shoulder, but let him deepen the kiss, his stubble scratching over your skin. You like it better when you are on holiday, and his stubble is then longer and softer, but you don’t mind. The way he kisses you is worth the little burn.

After all, since you are with Randall, Mondays are not that bad anymore.

 


	4. 4

Little Randall Story

In the evening Randall comes home and finds you sitting on the couch, knees drawn to your body, embracing them.

“Okay, what is wrong?” he puts down his suitcase and takes off his jacket before he sits aside from you. “What happened?”

There is no reason to gainsay it, “How do you do this? How do you know something is … not right?”

He smirks, this rare smile, that is not so rare when he is with you, “I’m a Head of News, it’s my job to know things, others don’t.”

“That’s Sherlock Holmes’ job,” you retort faster as you want. He keeps quiet, not letting you distract him. “I tried to cook something.”

“Uhoh,” his both eyebrows come up. You had basically lived of takeaway for ten years before you met him. Now your cooking skills slowly increase - only slowly. “Did you set the kitchen on fire?”

For a moment you can see, that he actually considers such an emergency. Gladly, that didn’t happen. Otherwise, the man would never stop again to rearrange his books.

“Not exactly,” you say half amused half serious. “Okay, I just burned something!” you add quickly when you get the feeling he will start to rearrange something. “I tried to make a cake, and it burned.”

You see him think, his mimic wanders from severe, to amused and then to confused, “You wanted to make a cake … for dinner?” Healthy food is everything.

“I wanted to make a cake for dessert and, then it burned and then I gave up completely,” you sound defeated and ask yourself how you ever got that old, with such poor cooking skills.

He chuckles and then laughs heartily, “Let’s order something.”

“You hate takeaway!”

Randall leans over, shoves your knees down from the sofa and cups your face. “And I know you love it,” the kiss is gentle and the exact thing you need to come back to positive spirits again, “Also, as you almost burned down the kitchen, I rather go for ordering tonight.”

You give him a pout and a kiss on his nose, and then jump up to get the many menus you hide in a cupboard, “You are not angry, that I messed up?”

“I haven’t seen the kitchen yet,” he loosens his tie and then pulls you against his chest. “I could never, you know that. Even when you set the whole building on fire.”

“Don’t tempt me!” you manage to say before he kisses you silent for a long time.

 


	5. 5

It has been a long day in the office, and you are the last one being there, about to clean up your desk, to go home. The radio is playing, and suddenly you find yourself swaying to an up-tempo song, and before you can think you shake your hips, raise your arms and dance free in your little corner, warbling away the tune.

When you make a swift turn, you bump against a barrier you are sure it wasn’t there before. The barrier lives and brings his hands around your upper arms, holding you, preventing you from tripping while you squeal over the sudden contact.

“I didn’t know you can dance like this?” Randall smirks. “I should let you forget more often that we had a date for dinner because that was actually very … delightful.”

“Randall!” you laugh half relieved it is him, half awkward as you know in what situation he just caught you. Then his words seep in, and you remember that you had a dinner appointment with him, what you have forgotten completely over your work. “Oh, god no! I forgot!”

He still holds you in his arms, brushing away some strands of hair, that got all messy over your abandon dancing. “Don’t worry, it was worth it I would like to say,” a broad smile spreads across his face. “When you didn’t mention the dinner in the morning, I knew you would forget, so I cancelled the table and brought dinner with me.” He nods toward some plastic bags behind him.

“Did I ever tell you, I love you?” you beam at him all excited.

The man in your arms gets slightly flustered, “Uhm, no I don’t think so.”

“Oh,” you then realise what meaning there is in your words. “Well,…I do,” you whisper and give him a gentle kiss, and when you part from him, his greenish eyes give you an intense stare, his thumb trailing over your cheek, and parts of your mouth.

“I love you too,” he never has said it before, and out of his mouth, it sounds not only like some words. It’s a promise, a hope for forever. “I do love you so much, the only thing I want to do, is make you miss dinners and watch you dance.” He realises how pathetic his words must sound. Randall Brown is usually no one for such flowery expressions. “I mean-”

You silence him with a deep kiss, hugging him tight against your body, till you feel him relax against you. “That’s great because,” you chuckle then nervously, “that is exactly what I want to do.”

He kisses you one more time, long and savouring before you find yourself sitting in front of the radio, listening to old pop songs, joking around and eating.

Sometimes life is perfect; it mostly is with Randall Brown at your side.

 


	6. 6

It’s your’s and Randall’s week off, and since half an hour you wonder, how this man, who usually ticks like a clockwork and is up at point six o’clock is still fast asleep, now at seven.

You muse, he must have some switch somewhere, one you haven’t yet found aside all the explorations you've made on his body with hands and mouth. You like to watch him, his expression at ease, his sometimes stern expression hushed away by sleep and the comfort he finds in your arms - something he has admitted in a drowsy moment. His hair tousled by the night.

“You do it again,” he suddenly murmurs, without opening his eyes, not moving.

You keep quiet, doing as if you haven’t done anything, so he opens his eyes with a smirk, “You are watching me.”

Your smirk becomes a broad smile - you can’t hide that you are totally in love with this man, and so there is no try to deny it; “I was just wondering, that is all.”

“About what?”

“How you can switch from workweek to free week modus? You’re usually up at point six, and now you are sleeping in!” you slump back into the pillow. “I wish I could do that.”

He smiles at you, in some mischief, as if he considers if he should tell you, what he says next, “It’s a trick.”

“A trick?” you ask teasingly. And when he does not go on, “Care to share it?”

Randall purses his lips and then nods. Then he grabs your arm and makes you turn, till you are spooned by him, his lips breathing gentle kisses on your shoulder, and his arm pulls you close by your waist. You wait a few seconds, expecting some words, but you feel he seems to fall back into a slumber.

“That’s it?”

“Mh, that’s it. I don’t do magic, in case you thought that,” he chuckles and his fingers start to trace little pattern onto your skin by your stomach.

You feel yourself relax again, your breath gets even, and soon you feel sleep come over you. “I like this trick…”

 


	7. 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Randall catches a cold.

It started in the late afternoon of Saturday, when Randall sneezed three times in a row, sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper. He never did that, so you knew something was wrong. Also, you not dared to point it out. You knew Randall now all too well.

Telling him he might be approaching a cold, would only make him grumpy and all  _“No I don’t.”_  For someone who was very acknowledging, open-minded and polite, he was all grumpy and ignoring, when it came to the faults of his body. In particular a cold. Running nose, coughing, all that stuff. He didn’t like it because he couldn’t control it. As complicated and multifaceted as your lover was, he was truly very easy to understand. No control led to grumpiness.

When Sunday came, he silently doubled his tea ration, while clearing his throat a bit too often as it seemed to ache. The sneezing continued — what else.

When he sat on the couch, flicking through a book, brooding that he obviously really got a cold, you gathered your courage and hopped aside him, smiling. “Love-”

“-No.”

“You don’t even know what I want to say!” you stated in a played shocked tone. Because of course, you knew what he wanted to say. You smirked smugly at him. “Admit it. You have a cold.”

“I am not,” he flicked through another twenty pages, under your gaze, before he closed the book and placed it on the table. “Maybe I have.”

You beamed at him, your  _“the winner takes it all”_  smile, before you shuffled closer, “Kiss me!”

Not that he didn’t want, but he was afraid he would give you his germs, and that was the thing that annoyed you the most. While he did as if he was not sick, he still acted like it, with all the quarantine like the behaviour of “no touches” and “no kisses”. “I’d rather-”

You grabbed his jumper and pulled him in, and with a smooth motion, you sat on his lap, kissing him.

“You’ll catch my cold,” he mumbled before kissing you again, holding you against his chest. His will broken by your open affections.

“Stop this nonsense,” you whispered. “I’ll be good. I have a great immune system.”

You spent the rest of the day kissing, and sharing affections, before you both fall asleep early in bed, tangled up in each other.

The next morning you woke — with a headache. You felt all mushy in your head and your body. “Oh, no,” you groaned.

“What is it?” Randall turned around and kissed you on the temple.

“Nothing,” you buried your face in the pillow.

This time it was Randall, all smug and smiling at you — it’s obvious he was feeling better, and you were feeling horrible, “You caught my cold.”

“Don’t say; ‘I told you so.’”

“Fine,” he smirked and shuffled out of bed. “Does ‘I love you’ help?”

You moaned into your pillow before rising your head, “A little bit.”

He smiled, and brought you tea and some fruits, before leaving to work. You smiled too, happy he was ok again, sad you weren’t, but in the end, you two had some great kisses the day before — a cold, totally worth it. 


	8. 8

 

Monday morning, and half awake, half still somewhere in a distant dream about a beautiful weekend, you snuggle up to the person next to you. At least you attend to do so, your hand reaching into emptiness and opening your eyes groggily you find the spot aside you empty.

An asking groan escapes you, while you glance over at the watch on the nightstand. It’s still fifteen minutes till “stand up time”. 

Hearing Randall rummage around in the flat, probably the kitchen, you fall back into your pillow, slightly disappointed of his absence. He probably had woken up, and restless as he always is, had left to make coffee ready and to read some newspapers. 

“I am just getting ready for the day,” he had explained once after you had asked him, why he sometimes fleas out of bed. “I couldn’t sleep anymore; I only would wake you up. I am not fleeing out of the flat.” He had ended the discussion with a kiss on your nose and offering you the best coffee you had ever tasted.

Today, at this Monday, it was different, when a different smell as fresh coffee tickled your nose. Flinging open your eyes, you find Randall kneeling in front of the bed at your side, holding a plate in his hand. On it, a small piece of cake and a little candle – lit. 

“Happy Birthday,” it’s rare that Randall actually grins, and as he does, you find, it’s already your best Birthday ever.


	9. 9

_It’s late; god knows how late. You had gone to bed hours ago after a hard work day yourself. After receiving a message, that something had gone wrong in the office, and Randall would show up late._

_He usually was able to say a time, this time he wasn’t and when you had opened your eyes at short before midnight, the bed aside you was still empty and cold. You retreated your arm back under the blanket and sent out a prayer before you fell into a slumber again. Since you live with Randall, you can’t sleep very well without him. Your hand is always on the search, for his warmth, his closeness._

_Knowing he has such a long day at the office, is a torture to you. But then, when you hear somewhere a church bell in the distance for half past midnight, you feel the bed shifting. Randall has finally found his way home. His lean body is pressing against you, his lips pressing a gentle kiss against your temple, “Go back to sleep, love.”_

_“Everything alright?” you pull him closer, while he spoons you, hold his arms and hands, pressing kisses onto his skin.  
_

_“It wasn’t,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose into your shoulder. “Now, here with you, it is.”_

_A smile flickers over your lips before you finally fall into a deep sleep. Both of you. Arm in arm._


	10. 10

You are both busy sorting through paperwork that has to be done from time to time. Nothing you both can appreciate, but you find joy in the present of the other. Randall sits on the sofa, a pile of papers in front of him, while you sort through old bills. Some for the bin, some for the tax.

It’s mostly you who groans from time to time, either you could imagine what better you could do with your time, or you realize what unnecessary stuff you have bought over the last five years.

Then an old bill falls into your hand that reminds you strongly that it will be soon Christmas, and without thinking you declare that out loud.

Randall stops, looks up, not to you, but to the bookshelves across from him, “Soon?”

You smirk, “You noticed they sell already the Christmas decorations and the candy, don’t you? It feels like some sort of pressure, don’t you think?”

He turns his head to you, one of his almost unseeable smiles on his lips, “That’s some strong arguments you have there,” and adds after a minute of silence, after you have let the topic drop already in your head, rolling your eyes over some shoes you bought, but never wore, “So any suggestions what you would like to have?”

“Have for what?” it’s far from believable that a man like Randall Brown would start making investigations that early for Christmas, on the other side, that’s maybe exactly what a Randall Brown would do.

“Christmas,” he places the papers aside, looking at you. “Isn’t that what women do? Making suggestions while standing in front of a shopping window? We haven’t done that in a while, so I had no chance to listen. So I thought I ask you.”

“Uhm,” you haven’t wasted one thought about Christmas till yet. Not for what you would like to buy him, and most of all not for yourself. “I don’t know. I haven’t … you don’t have to buy me something.”

He has reckoned your answer, that you can read in the way he smirks, and grabs for his glasses to clean them. You wait for his objection. It’s like a game couples play. Agreeing on not buying anything and in the end, at least fifteen presents are under the tree and everybody is like “I thought we didn’t mean it.”

But Randall only says “Fine by me,” and goes one. There you get a hunch something is up, also you not ask. It’s way too early for Christmas argumentations.

Another minute passes, and Randall shoves one box of papers to the side, while opening another, “Do you like jewellery?”

You have some, sure, but you never were one for big bling and pearls. Some earrings, some rings, a few necklaces, everything you have bought yourself. Unsure what to say, you glance over to him, he seems busy sorting through the papers, but there is something at him, a smile a gleam, you can’t tell. “I… I am not-”

“-Okay,” he turns toward you, leaning slightly forward. “How about that? A fine, little cottage I already booked, in Scotland, by the shore. Stacked with food and firewood for two weeks,” puzzled you look at him, gaping like a fish, but he raises one finger, “And at Christmas eve a ring. Silver? With a blue, very tiny, not pretentious diamond. And me… on my knees, asking you to marry me.” He looks very calm, but he most certainly is not, it’s the way he bites the inside of his cheeks, and licks his lips.

Your brain needs a few seconds till all the information has trickled in, “Did you just-?”

“-Yes,” he smirks, “I mean, no. I will. At Christmas. I shouldn’t have told you, but I know you, once you mention something, you will come back to it, and before you find other plans and ideas for Christmas, I better let you know.”

“Kay…,” unsure if you should cry or laugh, you do a little bit of both, quickly brushing the tears away, pulling yourself together. “Do I have to act surprised?”

“It’s appreciated, yes,” he laughs.

He still sits on the sofa and you still sit by the table, nodding like an idiot. Happy as the same. Quickly you make yourself busy with another bill, before you can’t hold it any longer, and jump up to sit aside him, kissing him on the cheek.

Randall smiles, leaning into you, “What was that for?”

“Pre-Christmas gift, little teaser,” he grabs your hand, and you entangle your fingers with his.

“It seems,” he kisses your open palm, “we are both now very eager for Christmas.”


	11. 11.

It’s the night of the month where you always wake up around eleven pm or midnight, finding the spot beside you empty. At first, you were confused, but by now, you know it’s his habit. His thing. Once a month, he tries to sleep but can’t, wakes up and finds himself in the living room, over a cup of tea (he usually forgets till it gets cold), looking over the proofs of the next issue.

“OCD,” he simply had explained once too you, and you accepted it. What else you could do. There was no real harm in it, aside he was slightly tired in the morning and you woke up in an empty bed.

For some reason he couldn’t push the thought aside, so he explained on, that his crew had done a good job, erasing errors and slips in the layout. He knew they had, but he couldn’t rest till he hadn’t looked over it again, a few hours before print. Usually, he found nothing or only some misspelt words; it didn’t stop his urge to do it every month again.

At the beginning you didn’t do anything about it, and then one night, tossing in your bed, you stood up, finding him sitting in the living room, not on the couch, but in front of it. The IPad with the digital copy on the living room table. Strange, you thought, but so everything had the best height.

Without a word, you joined him. Not aside him, not across from him in the armchair. No, behind him. You pushed the couch a bit more back, and then simply squeezed yourself between the couch and him, pressing your front against his back, settling your feet into his lap (he used to sit cross-legged in those moments). Your hands around his chest, holding him tight, your face by his shoulder, feeling his warms. You said no words, just snuggled into him, sighing. Neither said he something.

He didn’t know what to say. First, you felt, as his muscles tensed under your touch, he was confused and didn’t know what to think of it. You ‘hung’ basically at him like a Koala or some sort, but with time, you felt him fall at ease again, flicking over the cold surface of the IPad, reading, forgetting about you. Not literally, but the strangeness of it.

You mostly fell asleep. However, you managed that in this position. Not a deep sleep, more a dozing, breathing in the same rhythm as he did, listening to his heart. Till he was done, and then turned off the technical device, turned around and you followed him half awake, half asleep back into the bed.

One night, you came to him again, it was this time very early, he only had stood up, ten minutes ago, and you felt suddenly his hand on your arms, you had tight around his chest.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you,” you whisper, rubbing your cheek against his back, ready to doze off again.

A minute of silence goes by. Randall is not moving, not touching the IPad, you notice, and frown in your semi-sleep, then he turns around, cupping your face, and kisses you gently, “Let’s go back to bed.”

Your eyes go open wide, quizzical. He hasn’t done his work yet, “What’s with your work?”

“It’s fine,” he smiles. “I trust my crew.”

You smile back. There won’t be any nightly work hours anymore from there on, you know, “Are you… sure?"

“Yes, it was something I had to do because of this urge, but the urge is gone, since quite a while actually,” he admits.

“Why so?”

“Because you love me,” he brushes a few strands of hair out of your face. “That’s all I need to know.”

  


 


	12. 12_The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randall told you he would like to ask you a very important question on Christmas Day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, Christmas is over by now, but I think it doesn't matter. I think this chapter [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4542969/chapters/11447287l) needs a follow up. So now have the story about Randall proposing.

 

The main problem from there on was; you couldn’t keep your thoughts off of it. Randall Brown’s admission what he would like to do on Christmas Eve, not only filled you with excitement and anticipation but made a real mess out of you. You were very good with hiding it, at least, that was what you thought.

Knowing Randall now for so long, you guessed — two weeks before Christmas — he probably knew. As he saw you every day, say you drop more plates or glasses, as one would usually do. Saw you get lost in thought over the one show you really loved, you usually never got distracted by anything else when watching. He said nothing, only seemed to smile gently and slightly amused at you.

Then a couple of days before Christmas he fulfilled his first promise, to take you to a lovely, little cottage in Scotland. Stacked with food and firewood for two weeks.

You were so excited and in love with it immediately — the interior looked like taken out of a silly love movie.

Randall made it look as if it had been the easiest thing to come up with, knowing very well, a good looking cottage was hard to find, and he had spent a long time searching for one, spending slightly too much money on it. “Yes?”

“Oh, god I love it!” you swayed around the living room with a fireplace and a comfy looking sofa. “The only thing missing is a fake bearskin as a rug.”

“I think there is a chance there is one in the cupboard,” he chuckled.

You stared at the fireplace, then back to Randall, you were not an unskilful town girl, but you never really had to make a fire, “You know how to make a fire? Because I don’t.”

“I can show you,” he offered, and you nod happily.

So you settle into your new fancy home, and even all the new things keep you busy, the landscape, the little walks he takes you on, are distracting you, but you can’t get your mind off what Randall will soon ask you.

You think about telling him, revealing to him, that you lay awake at night picturing how it might be. Then you decide it wouldn’t do good, would scare him off, or would make him tell that you act slightly silly. And you’ve managed so long, you decide you would be able to manage a few days more.

And then Christmas Day is approaching and you realize with opening your eyes, the real torture only just began. After kissing your lover good morning, you hop under the shower telling yourself several times to ‘ _get yourself together’_.

Randall is the most lovely person that day — not that he isn’t on other days, just a wee bit more — pressing fresh orange juice for you, offering a little trip to the nearest town to walk over the Christmas market before it closes in the evening.

Telling you about a wonderful dinner idea he had right before you would settle down on the sofa, watching the little tree you both bought the day before, listening to some music to let the day fade out.

Of course, he not mentioning anything about a proposal, no word about a ring, and while he is under the shower you check with the most utmost care if there is one of the few presents looking suspiciously like a ring box. Nothing. Of course, he wouldn’t place the ‘item’ carelessly under the tree.

The worst was and is, Randall doesn’t look in anyway nervous. Or he is and you are just too busy with yourself. Great, now you feel guilty also.

The day goes by, the Christmas market is wonderful, you drink some glogg, eat some crepes and snuggle into Randall’s warm embrace, sharing stolen kisses.

Back in the cottage, you both cook in an improvised collaboration a small but fine Christmas dinner. Having a glass wine and a delicious tasting dessert afterwards.

And then… nothing. Settling on the couch, staring into the fire, listening to music, and nothing more. No ring. No proposal. Just a share of little trifles, which have been placed under the tree from you both. A new tie for him. Your favourite perfume.

You don't have the courage nor the energy to point out what is missing in your opinion, and you’re almost happy when Randall suggests to call it a night.

Filled up with confusion and a sort of disappointment you fall asleep quickly, and for months, you finally sleep through till the next morning. Postponing the doubts about whys and wherefores of Randall’s change of plans, for the next day.

The next morning you wake up to an empty bed, and the smell of fresh eggs and warm bread in the air. Randall already up, hearing him rummaging in the kitchen. Deciding you need a hot shower, you join him afterwards, snuggled into one of his jumpers and casual sweatpants. Only half you notice that the fire is about to die out again.

“You’re alright?” Randall asks after you were excessive silent and having worried lines on your forehead.

“Uhm,” the truth is, you’ve started thinking under the shower how to approach the topic without being a prick. “I am… just thinking. About yesterday.”

“Oh?” you can see him swallow, and now you are convinced he knows what is wrong.

Maybe he has lost all courage, you think before you think, he might has changed his mind.

Then you see his eyes dart over to the fireplace, “The fire! Let me get it going first, okay?” he jumps up without giving you any other possibility as to agree.

You only nod, following him slowly, settling down onto the couch, “Randall?”

The fire is almost gone, Randall kneels down and grabs some old paper, some small firewood and tries to build a little pyramid to reignite the fire with the rest of the ember. His hands more fumbling as building, and quickly there is just smoke and no fire, “Damn,” he mumbles.

You smirk, as cursing is so unusual for him. Then he comes back to you, “Yes, love?” expectantly he glances at you.

“Can I ask a question?” you ask unsure, looking at him, his fingers slightly covered in ash from his try to make a fire, his curls hanging loose into his forehead.

“You just did, love,” he smirks. “You can always ask me anything.”

“Do you love me?”

His eyebrows come up in sheer surprise, then he veils himself by looking back to the fireplace. Still no fire. You can see him smirk, and don’t know why, when he looks back at you, “I am glad you ask, but before I answer, can you fetch me another lighter,” he holds up his dirty hands as an excuse, “This one seems not to work anymore.”

“Uhm, where is it?”

“On the shelf, there, the longish black box,” he points at a point in the room and you stand up getting it for him.

By now you are unnerved and just hand it down to him with an exaggerated huff, “So? Do you? Because-”

He grabs the hand you just held out the box to him with, brings one of his knees up from the ground, and fumbles the box open with the other, revealing a silver ring, with a blue, very tiny, not pretentious diamond, “I do, with all my heart, and I’d want to ask you, if you give me the honour of becoming my wife?”

There is a chance you are about to faint, and with wobbly legs you stagger a bit back, making Randall jump up, holding you by the waist, “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“-Yes!” you only blurt, and press your lips against his, throwing your arms around his neck. He leans into the kiss, and you feel how his tense muscles relax under your embrace.

Then you loosen the contact a bit, to slap your flat hand against his shoulder, “You’re such a pillock! You planned all this, didn’t you?”

Randall blushes, catching his lower lip between his teeth, “I knew you waited for it, the moment I told you about my plans, you were a wreck and yesterday… I wanted it to be a surprise. I am sorry if I made you feel horrible.”

It doesn’t matter anymore, now the only thing matters are him and you, and the future he wants to have with you, “God, I love you so much!”

Nervously he fumbles the ring out of the box, and takes your hand, shoving the ring onto your finger, “And I love you, much more as you will ever imagine.”

Glancing down the ring, you are about to shed a tear.

It fits perfectly.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not want it to be all too "typical" and also I think I just went "all too typical". Not sure :D. I can imagine Randall being like this. I also can imagine him being all different. 
> 
> Like and or leave a comment!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally another Randall Brown Mini Fic

Something tickles him. It’s not the sunlight because it’s November and the sun is still not high enough to shine full strength into the bedroom. For a moment Randall decides it’s him dreaming something funny when something by his foot tickles him again.

With a little startle, he shoots up from his pillow, staring into the dim light of the starting day. He needs a few blinks to realise what is going on. What day it is and so on. It’s Sunday, 7 am. With relief, he breathes out. Weekend, no need to get up and go to work.

 

‘Coffee,’ the thought flashes up in his tired mind. ‘Mh, coffee,’ he adds, and then something moves aside him, and he turns with his body. He needs a few seconds again to put the puzzle together. Then he smirks while remembering a lovely evening. Halloween, not a day he admires, but he found enjoyment in throwing sweets into kids bags and to complement their costumes from time to time.

Enjoying a self-made pizza and some cranberry juice, while some slow and relaxing music plays on the record player. While giving out little kisses down a neck, before indulging into an evening of sweet lovemaking.

Again something tickles him by his foot, and he smirks, forgetting about coffee and about starting the day, before laying back into bed, throwing another blanket over him and the body next to him. A hum escapes, and he pulls the body closer before placing a soft kiss on the back of the neck. His hands trailing round a hip bone and taking a deep breath.

Then he falls back asleep, knowing he could do such Sunday mornings every day.


End file.
